


Hurt So Good

by Sorryimnotthatkindofdoctor



Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Thoughts, Death Wish, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:29:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7075165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorryimnotthatkindofdoctor/pseuds/Sorryimnotthatkindofdoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris thinks about what the pain tells him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt So Good

It felt good.  It had felt so damned good.  Just as it always did, ever since that first time so long ago.  That incredible rush of feeling, as if someone had slammed what was left of his ragged soul back into his body.  The pain always felt so good.  The feeling of his blood, pounding, pouring; his lungs hungry for all the air they could get....so good.  It was his way of telling that he truly was alive, and not just a walking corpse, as he feared.  Void of all feeling and emotion, save despair and anger. 

But no, the pain told him, screamed at him in its loud voice of agony: “You live!”  He lay still, the sound of gunfire drowned out as someone shouted his name and then he was drug back to safety.  He heard everything as life continued on around him, but his mind was back,  remembering that first time, almost two years ago.  That first time when he’d realized what the pain meant.  It seemed like only last week....

****

 ....The whiskey seemed to never stop.  As soon as one bottle was gone, the next appeared.  The gold piece he’d given the bartender had seen to that.  They were delivered by the small, older man with a shake of his head to the dark corner where the darker clad man sat.  But, the only thing that mattered to him, was the money.  And the only thing the customer wanted, was the whiskey.  Both were happy.  Well, perhaps happy wasn’t the word for the man that had sat in the same seat for the past three days.

Chris Larabee tried to pick up the glass in front of him, but found his fingers refused to close properly.  Finally, using both hands, he managed to get the glass to his lips.  The liquor didn’t even burn anymore as it went down his throat.  He felt his stomach rebel at the onslaught of more whiskey, but roughly ignored it.  It had been doing that more and more as of late.  The last three days had been spent the same as most of the past year.  A general, misty haze covered his memory.  Vague images of a smoking plot of land where a house had once stood, followed by a pair of graves, both so small and frail, were quickly covered with numerous memories of his body, soaked in whiskey and blood, passed out in bars and back alleys.  Alone.  Always alone.

The man in black grabbed for the new bottle on the table, smiling slightly as he was able to open it and draw it to his lips.  This time, as the fermented liquid made contact with his throat, his stomach was ready for it.  With a violent cough, the liquor was spit out on the table as Larabee fought to regain control of his body.  And then, he heard the laughter.  His body was still shaking from his coughing fit when he looked up to see four other men standing by his table, cowboys from the look of them. 

“Damn shame when a man can’t hold his liquor, ain’t it boys?”  All of them shared the same glazed look of drunkeness, but none could miss the empty darkness that shone out of those pale eyes opposite them.  The one who had spoken, a tall, lean youth with black hair, suddenly found something much more interesting to look at on the floor.  The others figeted for a moment.  A man at a nearby table turned back from where he had been ready to duck under the table from flying bullets, smiling and shaking his head at the ignorance of the youths.  Their liquor-boosted pride soared, and the brunette off to the left spoke up, his brown eyes the only betrayal to his nervousness.

“Yeah, a shame.  Can’t even enjoy a decent drink without some old man spitting whiskey all over the place.”  The saloon grew deadly silent.  And deadly was the word for it.  Suddenly, the area around the four young men and Larabee’s table was empty of anyone but them.  Chris felt the anger rising up in him, a black wave of pure rage coming up.  The gunman tried to clamp it down, but it was impossible.  It was the only emotion he had left to feel, and when it came, it filled the empty shell his body had become to overflowing.  Moving with an agility that his drunken state belied, Larabee shoved back with his chair, the grating sound loud and heavy on the air.  The gunman carefully kept his legs braced against the table so that he didn’t weave.  His hands, while not going for the gun that was now visible on his hip, never strayed far from it, either.

“No shots in here, Larabee!” the barkeep shouted before ducking down.  The pale eyes narrowed as the weight of that name settled on all present.  The other patrons not involved felt some of their fear leave them.  Even though it was almost guaranteed that someone would die tonight, they had a feeling who it would be.  For, drunk or sober, Larabee’s reputation was one well known as that of an excellent shot.  The chances of his bullets hitting one of them was all but impossible.  The four cowboys that stood before the black demon were visibly shaken by learning who their object of play had been.  They had purposely riled one of the deadliest rattlesnakes in this part of the country.  Their mouths were dry and their tongues thick as they tried to figure out a way to escape with their lives still intact.  And last, but not least, Chris watched the way the room changed with his name.  Saw the relief on some, and smelled the fear on others.  And felt the raw anger growing larger inside him.

“You *boys* can get out now, if ya want.”  His words were soft, but they were heavy with the threat behind them.  Chris was drunk enough not to care about consequences or futures.  If they left, he could get back to his drinking.  If they stayed, he’d give them what they want and get rid of some of that anger that was slowly eating him away.  Either option was fine with him.  Those green eyes flashed as he caught the tightening lips on the faces before him.  And he knew what would follow.

Faster than anyone could have seen, Larabee’s fist shot out, connecting with the jaw of the one that had spoke first, just as his hand moved towards his gun.  Stepping past the falling youth, he went after the brunette that had continued the teasing.  The saloon exploded in a flurry of fists, chairs, and bottles as the other patrons, caught by misguided punches, joined in.  And in the middle, like a black storm, Chris Larabee used every arsenal his solid body could come up with, save drawing his gun.

The fighting was furious, and several were on the ground or through the now broken window.  Chris ducked a punch and returned one of his one, which connected.  As he turned to find another target, a harsh cry came from his lungs.  The elbow that had met his body crunched ominously, the sharp, stabbing pain making no mistakes about the fact that the gunman had broken ribs.  He dropped to the floor, trying to protect them from the sudden barrage of kicks and punches.  The pain was increasing, but it didn’t seem to be bothering him.  Instead, the others were startled to hear laughter coming from the form below them.

Then, all movement stopped as the report of a gun echoed in the air.  The owner of it strode into the room behind the sheriff, his blue eyes harsh with anger.  His face looked like one that was always ready for a smile, but their was no joy beneath that mustached lip.  As things were settled and groups separated, he kneeled next to the still chuckling, huddled form on the ground.  With a sigh, he gently picked up the gunman and left the building.

Chris awoke in a bed, the light soft and low.  He could hear voices, one of which he knew all to well.  As he went to turn, a cool hand was placed on his forehead. 

“Easy there, Pard.  The Doc’ll have ya patched up in no time.”  With no more strength, Chris had complied.  The next day, however, found him ready to move again.  Well, mentally, at any rate.  The rest of him wasn’t so eager.  During the fight, he’d somehow managed to break three ribs, receive a two-inch long slice, probably from a broken bottle, and get himself covered with bruises.  The doctor explained how lucky he was, considering the outcomes of four of the others involved in the fight.  Chris had just smiled throughout the whole thing, even when Buck had been yelling at him.

The cowboy had been following him ever since *it* happened.  Trying to bring him back from the edge.  Trying to bring him back from the Dead.  If it was one thing Buck Wilmington was, it was stubborn. <And a mother hen,> the gunman thought as he listened to him rant and rave, like always...  But it didn’t matter now.  For, as the pain coursed through his body, Chris knew the message it brought.  He was alive...truly alive.  Buck’s voice captured his attention as he swatted the bed with his hat.

“Chris, dammit!  What the hell were you thinking!  Starting a brawl against a whole dang saloon by yourself.  Good thing I came along.  What are ya trying to do....”

 

****

“....get yourself killed?!”  Chris lay still, as before, a small smile on his face.  He could sense the others around him.  The shooting had finally stopped.  But the pain had not.  The vague sound of Nathan’s muttering and Josiah’s quiet prayers reached his ears under Buck’s continuing verbal assault.  The others would be cleaning up by now.  A grimace crossed his face as Nathan found the holes releasing the blood from his body and set to work on them.  His oldest friend came to kneel beside him, looking confused, as if he didn’t know whether to strangle him or hold him tightly.

 Chris just smiled bigger,  and reached out to grasp the hand of the man that had been there when he lost everything, and when he’d finally begun to come back from that dark abyss.  Kill himself?  Maybe.  But even so, Death would just prove that he’d been alive, at least for awhile.  Just as the pain had told him he was.

 

The End


End file.
